


No Man's Land

by ibuzoo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-13 02:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13561266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibuzoo/pseuds/ibuzoo
Summary: Hermione learns the hard way that war puts certain things into perspective. Things like love. Things like murder.





	1. after.

**Author's Note:**

> This story consists of fragments, told in after, now, before and in between. Some of them are short, some of them longer.

**after.**

When the pain hits him he realizes he never particularly wasted a thought about his death. Not after the Horcruxes at least.

There had been the occasional frightening thought about running out of time, but none of them were ever grave enough to revive the terrifying panic he had as a child. Death had always been the cruel monster waiting at the end of his book. The punchline.

But now, in the end, Death is peaceful. Like the warm feeling of falling asleep after a long, exhausting day on Hogwarts’ grounds. It greets him like an old friend that he hadn’t seen in a while.

 _Perhaps if I would have known sooner_ , he thinks while falling, _I wouldn’t have been so afraid._


	2. now.

**now.**

It comes in waves.

First the sound of drizzling rain on stones. The steady hum of the wind rustling through trees. The slow rise and fall of another human's breathing at her side. The tickle of a woolen blanket keeping her warm in the cold. If she could feel pain, it was a low burn beneath the thick, foggy blanket of some potions that kept her alive and the rusty burn of flesh knitting itself back together.

Water is dripping in the background and it keeps her focused on the here. When she opens her eyes everything blurs in front of her. Someone is at her side in an instant, pushing a bottle between her lips. She drinks greedily.

"Easy."

The voice is thickly layered and smooth like velvet. He puts the bottle away.

Hermione feels strong hands and fingers pushing her up until she can sit. When she opens her eyes again she can recognize the outlines of Hogwarts' library - or at least what was left of it. Bookshelves are split and stones are scattered all over. A big hole flaunts on one wall, wide open for the rain to enter. In one corner a fire flickers; the warmth of it bleeds slowly into her numb body.

"Took you long enough," someone says at her side. The boy is young, probably her age. He's handsome enough, even with dirt and grease smearing over his cheeks. It looks as if he tried to wash them off a while ago, but the dirt was still there in some places. Something about him looks strangely familiar, but she can't quite point out what it was.

"Where am I?" she asks, throat scratching over razor-sharp vowels. Her throat burns brutally.

"Hogwarts. The remains of the library, to be exact."

She looks around but the movement makes her dizzy again. A painful groan leaves her lips.

"I didn't know if you were going to wake up," the boy says and pushes long, dirty strands of dark hair out of his face. "You lost a lot of blood and half of your bones were crushed. You shouldn't move around too much. You had several fractures and internal bleeding from the fight. You were lucky I could find a couple of skelegro flasks in the infirmary. The concussion should stay for another day though." The boy looks at her with a critical glance and flickers his grey eyes once over her appearance.

"How long was I out?" Her ribs protest when she tries to stand up. He watches curiously but doesn't stop her. As if he'd wait for her pain to take hold of her. When she doesn't manage she lets out a frustrated sigh and keeps sitting on the dirty mattress.

"Five days."

"Five days?" she croaks, the weakness of her voice scaring the life out of her. How much did she miss? What happened? Breathing became instantly harder. She's too busy worrying about the war, her friends, her  _family_  for Merlin's sake when the pain in her head swells to an unyielding crescendo and a long hand snatches her wrist. She tries to rip it free but he keeps an adamant hold on her, that is firm enough to keep her in place but not enough to bruise.

"Your pulse is speeding. You need to calm down." He lets go of her wrist and pushes the bottle of tepid water into her hands again. "Drink. It will help."

"Who are you?" She stares up at him but does as she is told. The water is clean and tastes sweet like apples. "I've never seen you before."

He doesn't answer her at first. Then he reaches for the bottle, puts it away and clears his throat.

"My name is Tom. Tom Riddle."

Horror makes room inside her bones. She tries to get up again but her legs feel heavy. They don't move. A profound calm overcomes her that is deeper than the bottom of the sea. It embraces her completely.

"Murderer," she croaks while her eyes fall shut and she slowly sinks back onto the dirty mattress again.

"You really think I've rescued you to kill you? How boring. I could have slit your throat five days ago. I could have left you to choke on your blood." He sighed as if all the world's pressure was on his shoulders. A pretty drama. "I'll give you a moment to let that sink in. For now, sleep."

She wants to lash out, if not with her hands and limbs then with her words. But her head is pounding and her mouth is painfully dry and there is a growing, nagging feeling inside of her telling her the bastard drugged her.

 _A Calming Draught_ , a voice tells her.  _No Drugs._  She's not sure if the voice is real or in her head.

The dripping sound of the rain lulls her to sleep shortly after.


	3. now.

**now.**

 

Hermione doesn’t trust him.

One day of detoxing and healing turns into two, then three. After that she feels better, but only a little. Moving around is still tough, and Hermione never gets used to feeling stiff and sore and futile. She’s making little progress in the times when she’s awake and functioning; her ribs scream whenever she moves and she’s exhausted all the time but her body gets better. It grows stronger.

Surprisingly, Tom is a rather good cook. Even with the limitations that their situation puts upon them, he manages to get something decent out of it. It’s part of his charm, she supposes.

“It’s not poisoned,” he says every day when he gives her a bowl of potatoes, carrots or anything else that he found in the ruins of Hogwarts’ kitchen. Every day she takes it. On the third she says, “Thanks.”

He’s as surprised as she is. They don’t talk about much else.

As soon as she can walk she tries to explore the surroundings. Half of Hogwarts lies in ruins and the other half looks haunted and gloomy, even in sunlight. Not even the ghosts are around anymore. Everything is lost and abandoned and empty. Just like she feels.

On the fourth day she makes it down to the Great Lake before her force and energy leave her. She lies down on the damp grass and closes her eyes to drown out the world. The pain ebbs away but her body is still weak. She has no will to surrender to her body’s weakness. She lays there for an hour, dozing, before he finds her. They still don’t talk. But she doesn’t refuse his hand when he helps her up and returns to their makeshift camp. He puts her down on the dirty mattress that she slept on the last few days, and takes his place on the other side of the fire that he made. Sometimes she catches him staring over the flickering orange light of the flames. His grey eyes hold more darkness than any black she had ever seen before. They are alluring.

She still has her wand. When she awoke after the Calming Draught it had been placed carefully alongside her head. It is not broken, not scared, and it works just as well as before. He has not tried to take it. In fact, he has not tried anything else other than to check her pulse and temperature every couple hours. And nurse her back to health with flasks he found in the infirmary and something that reeks half dead, half sweet, that he cooked himself on a small fire and a pot that looked like it had seen better days. She lets him. She doesn’t have much of a choice, after all.

Tom is a parasitic necessity in her healing process. And she knows it.

But she doesn’t trust him. She’s not that stupid.

 


End file.
